


Brotherly Comfort

by Kittycrackers (Calacious)



Category: Sons of Anarchy
Genre: AU, Blow Jobs, Community: hc_bingo, Community:soa_slash, Cuddling, M/M, Sex, Sex in a hospital room, Swearing, Threesome - M/M/M, sex in a chair
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-16
Updated: 2014-04-21
Packaged: 2017-11-10 02:08:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/461086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calacious/pseuds/Kittycrackers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tig's world is falling apart, Chibs and Juice are there to anchor him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is written as a non-established relationship, so a first-time threesome (not exactly explicit). This is my first time writing such a pairing, so hopefully it is okay.

He isn't sure what to expect when it all falls apart and he loses everything in the blink of an eye, but it certainly isn't this - Chibs' arms wound around him, tight enough to bruise, and the kid, Juice, nestled up against his back, warm body flush against his. Comfort in the arms of brothers. 

And they aren't in one of the back rooms of the clubhouse, lights off, hiding in the dark. No, they're at the kid's place, and though the lights are turned down low, Tig can still see the arms wrapped around him - white entangled with brown, and he's in the middle of it all. Like some kind of monkey in the middle.

He wasn't even drunk when they fell together earlier that night, drowning in the wake of the news that had wrenched the world right from under his feet. None of them were. There was just the numbness following what had happened, and the uncertainty of what would happen next. A future uncarved. 

Chibs' insistence that none of them should be alone was followed up by a quick, discreet look at the kid, betraying his worry that Juice might not handle this well if left on his own. Tig couldn't have said no to the man, his brother in so many ways, if he'd wanted to, Chibs was a good friend. Not that he'd cared all that much what happened to Juice, the kid was a fucking retard half the time, and he'd yet to forgive him for that dog bite on his ass. 

In spite of all the shit he's said about where he's stuck his dick, he ain't never had anything like this before. 

Juice open and writhing beneath him, crying out in time with his thrusts, so warm, tight, accommodating; and Chibs, above them both, filling him, matching him stroke for stroke, making him hurt and ache in ways he didn't know he could- never knew he wanted. 

And fuck, Chibs was even more demanding a lover than he, making him work for it, ride his cock while Tig moved inside of Juice. And then there was a moment when everything just stood still, and maybe there were fireworks, or maybe it was his brain going haywire, making him see colorful sparks, the moment between 'fuck' and 'oh god', when everything just slid into place. 

Chibs and Juice and he. Push, pull, take, give, fuck, fuck, fuck. And it wasn't pretty or beautiful or anything but sex, but it was, at the same time so much more than making love. 

Juice tight around his cock, Chibs filling him. And all he could do was moan and weep and beg for more, until finally, at last they, all three of them at once, came, screaming their completion. The cacophony of their mutual cries echoed off of the bedroom walls and came back to them choked and wanting. 

Now, in the aftermath, he has time to think. Far from being freaked or disgusted or shamed, he feels more whole than he has in a long time. 

Juice shifts behind him, trying to get comfortable, one of his long, sinewy legs - all muscle and not shapely or soft like a woman's - works its way between Tig's legs. the kid's foot is cold and he has half a mind to shove him away. Instead, he relaxes back into the kid, lets Juice nuzzle against him with his cheek, clean-shaven and smooth. His arm absentmindedly thrown across Tig's waist as though to anchor him.

"You doin' okay?" Chibs asks, his voice is sleep-slurred. 

Tig nods, finds his own voice, and says, "Yeah." It comes out sounding like he's swallowed broken glass. Hell, he feels like he's swallowed that and more. 

Chibs cracks an eye open, glares at him, loosens the death grip he has on him a little and then settles back, letting his eye slide shut. The man's arms are solid, scarred, dark hair thick and downy. The man's cheek is flat against Tig's chest, the bristles of his stubble feel like sandpaper. Not a thing about this is feminine or girly or unnatural. It just is. 

"No you ain't," he says, "but you will be." 

And just like that, Chibs holding him from the front, half draped over him and Juice cradling him from the back, he falls asleep. His world hasn't been miraculously fixed, but he no longer feels like it's ending.


	2. Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tig has a nightmare; Chibs is there to comfort him, and Juice talks in his sleep.

"Wha'?" Juice rolls over in bed, his arm flopping across Tig's stomach. 

 

His eyes are half open, hazy with sleep. Tig tenses, but relaxes when the kid's eyes close and he mumbles something in his sleep. He likes that about Juice, the way he talks in his sleep, saying ridiculous things. 

 

"Crazy kid," he says, taking comfort in the fact that the man is lying next to him, body warm, sleep-heavy limbs pinning him to the bed, and not lying dead in the ditch as he'd dreamt. 

And fuck it all, he's having nightmares about losing the dopey kid because of something Juice had said about every Hispanic he's slept with dying, or some shitty thing like that. And he’d been joking about it, saying that he’d better watch out or he’d be the next to go. 

This isn’t normal,Tig thinks as he traces a scar on Juice’s back. I shouldn’t be worried about shit like this.

He has no idea how the kid got the scar, how deep it runs, if whatever had caused it had been deadly. He hasn’t ever seen it before, but then again, he hadn’t ever looked for scars on Juice’s back before now. He wonders if there are more, and knows that it isn't right for him to be thinking things like this. But the thought of Juice dying scares him. Makes him break out in a cold sweat, and want to push the other man away, just in case he is cursed.

 

"What you frettin' about," Chibs asks sleepily. He's face down on the pillow, and Tig wonders how the man can breathe like that.

 

Maybe it is Chibs he ought to be worried about and not Juice. Maybe everyone he sleeps with is destined to die, Hispanic or not. 

 

"Fuck," Chibs says, rolling onto his back, and propping himself up on his elbows so that he can peer down at Tig who is, once again, sandwiched between the Scot and Juice.

"What's gotten into that head of yours now?" Chibs asks. "Worried about tomorrow? Seems fairly routine to me." 

 

Juice stirs, mumbles something that sounds a lot like, "You gotta stroke it real nice, like a cat." 

 

Chibs snorts, and flops back down against the pillow as Juice settles once again. The kid can sleep through anything, which is something else that worries Tig. 

 

"You gonna tell me what's got you all tied up in knots or am I gonna have to guess?" Chibs asks, rubbing a hand over his face. 

 

The man is tired, they all are. It had been a long day and tomorrow would be too. They should be sleeping. 

 

"Nothing's wrong," Tig says. 

 

Chibs doesn't say anything, just looks at him in that inscrutable way he has which makes Tig squirm on the inside. Chibs doesn't need to torture anyone to gather information, all he has to do is look at the other person and they cave. 

 

"Had a nightmare," Tig says when the silence drags on too long, and Chib's eyes are a little too penetrating.

 

Chibs frowns, rubs a thumb along Tig's cheek. It's comforting and Tig suddenly feels like a little boy who's jumped into his parents' bed because there was a monster in his closet. It takes him a moment to realize that what he's feeling is vulnerable. 

 

It's such a dirty word to him, one he'd rather not have in his vocabulary. It's a feeling that he doesn't have often, and one he associates with shame. Vulnerability, in his line of work, can get him killed. But, this isn't work, and he isn't facing Clay or some threat to the club. This is him and Chibs and a nightmare that scared him shitless, even though it shouldn't have. 

 

"You wanna talk about it?" Chibs asks. 

 

Tig shakes his head, because talking about it might make it come true. Fucking irrational, he thinks. 

 

Chibs isn't giving up though. "Was it about tomorrow?" he asks, watching Tig closely. 

 

"No, it wasn't about anything important, just spooked me is all," he lies. 

 

"If it wasn't important, wouldn't've spooked you so bad," Chibs says. 

 

Tig sighs, knowing there's only two ways out of this - he can lie, or he can tell the truth. And really, with Chibs looking at him that way, there's only one way out of this - the truth. Except now that he's awake, seen that the kid's alive, and Chibs is watching him, waiting, he feels foolish. 

 

"I had a nightmare that the kid," he clears his throat as the image, bloody and brutal returns to him, "Juice, was, he was," and why the fuck is this so hard for him to say anyway, it's not like it really happened, "he died. I had a dream that he wrecked his bike on Oliver's Turn," it was a tricky stretch of road, never mind the ninety-degree turn, "he, there was," and he can't seem to put the images rolling through his head into words, "there was so much blood," he finishes in a whisper. 

 

Since when did blood bother him? It isn't until Chibs wraps his arms around him and pulls him to his chest that he realizes he's trembling. 

 

"I ain't a fucking baby," Tig grumbles. 

 

Chibs rolls his eyes, but doesn't release him, and Tig relaxes in the warmth and comfort Chibs is offering him.

"This about what Juice said the other day?" Chibs asks once Tig's got himself under control. 

 

"I don't know," Tig says, uncertain if it's Juice's words haunting his sleep, or if the dream is an indication of something deeper that he isn't ready to consider yet, "maybe." 

 

"Kid doesn't stop to think before he speaks," Chibs says, and his voice has a scolding edge to it. "Hell, the kid can't even sleep without nonsense coming out of his mouth." 

 

Tig laughs, and it’s not just because what Chibs has said is true, but it’s the look the man is giving him, a mixture of concern and amusement. His left eyebrow is hitched up, and it’s almost as though he’s daring Tig to argue with him.

“Don’t know why I let it bother me,” he says after a pause, thinking back to what had led to that foolish declaration from Juice. 

"Yeah, you usually let whatever the kid says go in one ear and out the other," Chibs says around a yawn, and then, he leans down and places a kiss against his temple like it's the most natural thing in the world.


	3. Just a Scratch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Juice just needs some space.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written in response to lederra asking about whether or not Tig’s dream had been a premonition.This one’s a little different, hopefully it’ll still be okay.

At first it's just an annoyance. It's just a little scratch on the inside of his thigh, and yeah it itches, but that's because he's wearing jeans - they chafe. He doesn't even remember how he got it. 

Hell, he doesn't remember how he gets half the scrapes and bruises that he does. Sometimes they just appear overnight, and Tig will make an off-handed comment about how he's a clumsy idiot even in his sleep. And Chibs will give him a look that says the same thing, but it'll sting more because that same look also communicates disappointment. 

He tries not to let it bother him. They're just ribbing him, like any brother would do, but sometimes it gets to him, and he's tired of being called an idiot, or clumsy, or stupid. 

So, when he notices the scratch on his thigh, a finger's length, one morning, he doesn't mention it, and does his best to hide it from Tig and Chibs. 

They'll just make fun of him anyway. Tig'll say something lewd, insinuate that he got scratched by some skank and call him a man whore. Juice supposes that it's a 'term of endearment' coming from Tig, especially when he says it while Juice is going down on him. Panting and moaning, writhing, tugging at his own hair, because, Juice is good at giving head and he's willing, most of the time. 

The scratch isn't very deep, the edges are smooth, like a line drawn from the tip of a knife - thin and straight. Almost as though someone's etched it there with a straight razor. 

He puzzles about how he got it, thinks back to what he'd done the day before, but his mind comes up a blank. He goes about his work, and once he's in the routine, working on a car's engine, he doesn't even remember that he has the scratch and forgets about it until he showers at the end of the day. 

The soap stings in the cut and he hisses at the unexpected pain, because he really had forgotten all about the mysterious cut, and now it looks infected. Just a little red around the edges, no big deal. He washes the scratch thoroughly, and thinks about putting a bandage on it. But there's a knock on the door.

"You gonna take all night in there?" Tig asks. "You're gonna turn into a Puerto Rican prune, you stay in there much longer." 

"Yeah, Juicy boy, save the rest of the planet some water, would ya," Chibs adds. 

"Wonder what the hell he does in the shower that takes him so long," Tig says, and Chibs grunts something that Juice can't understand.

"I mean, it's not like he's got a head of hair to wash." 

Juice bites back a retort, and shuts the water off. His body aches after a hard day's work, and he likes to take a long shower to ease some of the tension in his muscles, but Tig and Chibs will have none of that. 

Sometimes he wonders what it is that brought them together, and more importantly, what it is that's keeping them together, because, with the amount of bitching and moaning Tig and Chibs do about him and some of his habits, he wonders why the hell they keep coming home with him, and if maybe Tig and Chibs would be better off without him getting on their nerves with his idiotic routines and his games and his half-hour long showers. 

He pictures Tig and Chibs together, without him, and doesn't like how empty it makes him feel. The two are a perfect combination - Chibs and Tig - the Scot, slow to anger, often complimented, and mellowed out Tig's fiery temper. 

Juice, he's just a third wheel, there only because of Chibs' fear that, if he doesn't keep a close enough eye on him, he'll off himself like he'd tried to do twice before. And how much closer can someone get than cloistered in bed, limbs entwined so that it's hard to tell where one person ends and another begins? 

I don't belong, he thinks, but he plasters a smile on his face when he leaves the bathroom, and gives Tig the finger when the man mouths, "Finally." 

It's a gesture that the man returns with a wicked smile that makes Juice's heart skip a beat, because that smile is one he's come to associate with heart-stopping orgasms.

"Coulda offered one of us a rub down," Chibs says, "'stead of wasting all that water on yourself." 

He's leaning against the door jamb, his tall, thin frame blocking the way. 

"Yeah, well," Juice isn't sure what to say, not with the look Chibs is giving him, something that's halfway between a leer and hunger.

Chibs raises an eyebrow in question when Juice doesn't finish his unformed thought. Instead of elaborating, Juice shrugs, smiles, and gestures for Chibs to move. And then, just as he's brushing past Chibs, the words come to him, and he could slap himself for being so stupid. 

"Maybe Tig'll give you a good rub down," he says, smirking, and then he heads for the safety of his living room, intent upon getting lost in one of his games or some random TV show. 

"You okay Juicy?" Chibs asks, and Juice closes his eyes and grinds his teeth, before smiling and turning around to face the other man who can see through lies better than any lie detector on the market. 

"I'm fine," he says, "just tired. It was a long day." 

"How come you're headed for the living room?" Chibs asks, narrowing his eyes. 

Juice swallows down his irrational anger and shrugs. It's hard for him not to say what's really on his mind, that he needs some space, that Chibs can stop watching out for him now - he's a grown man, and if he wants to play a video game until he's a freaking zombie, or kill himself, what the hell difference does it make to anyone else? 

Instead, he says, "I'm too wired to sleep, need some time to wind down." 

Though he doesn't say the word, alone, it lingers between them, and Chibs nods. Juice can feel the man's eyes on his back, following his progress to the living room. He can practically hear the warning bells going off in the other man's head as Chibs parses through his half-lies, and he knows that it won't be long before the man corners him and demands the truth. 

Now that Tig's a bigger part of his life, he supposes that they'll both gang up on him. And that's when he decides that he's had enough, that he needs some space, some air, and instead of stopping when he reaches the living room, he grabs his keys from a peg on the wall where they've always hung, double-checking to make sure that they are his, and not Chibs' or Tig's. 

They each have their own peg now, but Tig never seems to remember that his is the on the far left, and he keeps placing his keys on top of Juice's, mixing them. It's a small thing, but it gets on Juice's nerves, and he knows that if he says anything, Tig will just give him his, 'fuck you,' look and then purposely mix their keys up. It's not worth the hassle. 

Juice takes a deep breath as soon as he sets foot outside of his place, and he feels as though a weight has lifted from his chest. He smiles for real when he gets on his bike and rides away. 

Tig and Chibs will make due without him. He's not worried about them giving his disappearance a second thought tonight, and he's not planning on being gone long, just a quick ride. He'll be back before the other two have finished showering, because, for all their bitching and moaning about how long he takes in the shower, they take almost as long, if not longer. 

Besides, he needs this. Needs to get away from the suffocating closeness. He wonders why Tig wasn't the first to feel this way. Why it's him who feels like he can't breathe, like he's being smothered. 

But then again, he's learned a lot about Tig in the last few months. Has begun to understand that the man, for all his toughness, longs to belong, to feel that he's a part of something, and that he's needed. More than anything, Tig needs to feel loved. 

It's strange, and he'd never have believed any of this about Tig - hell, the man is imposing and scary, and he still terrifies him half the time - if this hadn't happened. If the man hadn't broken after Clay had been shot, and Jax had assumed the role of presidency. If the man he'd spent a great deal of his life backing up and defending hadn't hurt him and the club so badly, Tig would never have done any of this. 

Though that initial night is a blur to him when he thinks back on it - he was an emotional mess himself and not exactly sober - he can still remember the raw vulnerability of the former second in command. The way Tig's eyes had shone, not with his usual madness, but with pain and hurt and need - like a wounded animal. And how Chibs had taken the man in hand, had taken the both of them and melded them into something more - a unit. 

Tig had termed it an accident, had tried to laugh it off the first time, but it was him who'd initiated the subsequent couplings, had made a habit of being outside of Juice's place whenever he felt whatever the hell it was he felt when he sought out him and Chibs.

Juice had finally just made keys for the other two so they wouldn't have to wait outside and to minimize the risk of them getting caught.

The Sons aren't exactly a tolerant sort when it comes to the habits and pedigrees of their own members. They might not outright declaim homosexuality and would turn a blind eye to it in matters outside of the club, but when it came to the club itself, it was not an acceptable practice. Juice didn't even need to be told that, he just knew, just like their dealing with the blacks. It was okay, tolerable to work with them, but no way in hell was a black man going to be allowed in the club. Something which he felt keenly, and in spite of Chibs' reassurance, still worried about. He has nothing outside of the club, and would be better off dead without it. 

Sometimes, after they've fucked, and each of them is in various states of post-coital lethargy, he wonders if Tig or Chibs is concerned about being caught, about being outed by the club and subsequently ousted. He loses sleep over it, as well as the question of whether or not he's gay, and just what this means about who is as a person. 

He still finds women attractive, still entertains them and still watches and gets off on straight porn. He was raised to believe that homosexuality is wrong, that it's a sin, but then again, he was also raised to believe that suicide is a sin with a one-way trip to Hell, same as murder. 

He is already a lost cause, which is why it had been so easy for him to wrap that chain around his throat and fall to his death. Except he hadn't died. 

There was no redemption to be had for him. He just wonders why the question of his sexuality is harder for him to wrap his head around, why it bothers him so much. He's already screwed in God's eyes, why is this such a big deal? What's one more sin to add to his tally? 

But it's more than that. It's not that he's worried about 'sinning' and God's judgement. If he's honest with himself, he's more concerned with the judgement of his brothers who deal out death and other forms of mayhem on an almost daily basis. 

He doesn't want to face the club's judgemental wrath about something like this. He worries more about Chibs and Tig, though. 

He doesn't want Chibs, or even Tig, to be ripped off their lofty pedestals, their reputations tarnished. And he can't stand the thought that they might even be killed for this. He has no such pedestal, there is no one who looks up to him, no one who has any high and lofty expectations of him. He's safer than the other two in that regard, and yet he's the one who worries, who struggles to define himself given these new parameters, and who is the first to flee. 

He's so lost in thought that he's not paying attention to where he is, and he hits Oliver's Turn at a faster clip than is strictly safe. His tires squeal as he takes the turn.

Shit, I am an idiot, he thinks, already knowing what Tig or Chibs would say if they got wind of this. Tig would give him guff about it, and Chibs would up his suicide watch on him, after chewing him a new asshole for good measure. 

Just as he thinks that he's made it out of the turn, going wide and into the oncoming traffic lane, because, if he doesn't, he'll crash, adrenaline rush, giving him a high that drugs cannot which is why he started riding in the first place, he sees them. Two headlights, eye-level. 

A truck, his mind registers. 

And then everything slows down to a crawl, and he knows what's going to happen before it happens, sees it all flash before his eyes as though he's a bystander. 

Funny,he thinks, even as the truck's horn blares, and his bike goes down, the light's blinding him, always thought that my life was supposed to flash before my eyes not my death. 

He doesn't feel the impact of the truck or the tires which come to a screeching halt on his legs, pinning them to the road. He doesn't feel anything at all which he thinks is odd. 

And, as his mind completes the crash for him, his imminent death playing out before him in black and white, the only thing he feels is peace, like he's being held in the arms of an angel.

Huh,he thinks, and he's puzzled, because there should be no angels coming for him after everything he's done, his relationship with Tig and Chibs notwithstanding. 

There should be a demon instead. One sent to drag him into the pits of Hell, and he wouldn't go kicking and screaming, he'd go willingly, because he knows, better than most, that he's a sinner deserving of no less than that. 

"Oh shit, holy shit, fuck, fuck, oh crap." The litany of swearing comes from out of nowhere,reminding Juice of Tig, and he smiles, because, for some strange reason, it's comforting, the swearing. 

"What did I do?" He can hear a man's voice asking, there's a frantic edge to it, but he can't see him. He can't see anything, and he's cold and tired, and he'd really just like to go to sleep now. 

"Hey man, you okay?" the question has a hysterical edge to it, and it pulls Juice back into the realm of the fully conscious. 

"Fuck, of course you're not okay, there's so much blood, shit, I'm sorry," the man, he sounds like a kid, reminds him of himself now, and there's no comfort in that.

"You just, you came out of nowhere, I, fuck, what the hell was I supposed to do?" 

Juice isn't sure if he's supposed to answer that question or not, but he's finding it hard to concentrate and he's not tracking the conversation all that well, wonders what the hell the kid is blathering on about, and why it should be any of his business in the first place.

"I called for an ambulance, they should be soon. Shit, you don't look so good, just hang on man, okay, just don't, don't die." 

Why not? Juice thinks. Who the fuck are you to tell me what to do? 

But then it isn't just the stranger whose truck he ran into kneeling down next to him, but it's Chibs and Tig, and though they don't say anything, he can see the unspoken command reflected in their eyes. 

'Don't you fucking die,' it says, and it's Chibs' voice that he hears, but it's Tig's eyes that are filled with unshed tears. Tig's eyes which hold him, and he knows that they're really not there, because he'd left the house without a single word to either of them and without knowing where he was going himself, and the young man is still talking, his voice is buzzing in Juice's ears like an angry bee. 

He can't make out any of the words, but that's okay because Chibs and Tig are there and he's being held in the arms of an angel.

'Don't you dare give up, you hear me Juicy boy?' Chibs' voice rings loud and clear in his mind. 

Fuck, you're bossy, even in my imagination, Juice thinks, and it makes him want to laugh.

'Stop babbling nonsense and keep your eyes open,' Chibs commands, and Juice blinks. 

It's dark. He hadn't realized that he'd closed his eyes. 

"You're going to be okay," the truck driver is saying, his face looming inches from Juice's, dispelling his vision of Chibs and Tig, "you've got to be okay." 

Juice doesn't feel the hand the man, and he really is just a kid, barely out of his teens if the acne covering his face is any indication, places against his cheek. He's cold and numb and his heart is barely beating, he can hear it in his ears, loud, like the beating of a drum.

"Stay with me man," the driver says, "just, stay awake okay, just stay awake, the ambulance is almost here." The boy's words echo in his ears, broken only by the ear-splitting sound of sirens in the distance. The boy smiles, it's watery and fraught with worry and fear. 

"Hear that?" the boy says. "See, they're almost here. You're going to be okay. You're going to be fine, just wait and see." 

And that's when Juice's eyes can no longer win the fight to stay open. He really wants to open them, reassure the boy, the phantoms of Chibs and Tig that he's okay, but he can't, they're glued shut. 

The boy's voice drones on, "Open your eyes, shit, God, don't die, please don't die, open your eyes, please open your eyes." 

The boy's hand is warm, and it's the weight of it against his cheek which assures Juice that he is still alive. There is no pain, he feels like he's floating outside of his body, and even though his eyes are closed, and his body's still pinned beneath the wheels of the truck, he can see everything as it's playing out. 

He watches the paramedics from somewhere above it all. They push the boy aside, and he can hear them talking, but the words are technical mumbo jumbo to his ears, and the questions directed at him are difficult for him to answer from so far away. 

"Can you hear me?" one of the paramedics asks, and though he can hear the man, he can't make his mouth work from where he's watching. 

"Squeeze my hand if you can hear me," the paramedic orders, and Juice considers it, tries to figure out how he can comply when he's hovering in the air as he is. 

"Pupils are dilated and unresponsive, we're going to need a jack to lift the truck off of him," the other paramedic says. 

"Fire truck and sheriff are on their way," the first one says, and the boy stands at the edge of it all, watching, his face a mask of horror. 

"He's going into hypovolemic shock, I'm going to start an IV." 

Juice watches them work, watches as the fire truck and rescue workers arrive a few seconds later. Watches as a roadblock is set up and the rescue workers get the truck off his legs. 

And through it all he feels nothing. It’s strange being outside of his body. He wonders if he can go anywhere he wants to, see anyone, do anything, but when he tries to leave the scene to check on Chibs and Tig - see if the Scot did join Tig in the shower after all, if maybe they’re sprawled out on his bed, waiting for him- he can’t. It’s like an invisible rope is tethering him to his body. He doesn’t want to be here, doesn’t want to watch the paramedics work on his mangled body, doesn’t want to watch the young truck driver cry as he’s being questioned by the police. 

"He's lucky," one of the paramedics says, when a fireman asks how he is, "doesn't appear to be any spinal injury." 

"Shit," the sheriff comes in time to see Juice being lifted onto a stretcher. 

"You know him?" the first paramedic asks.

"Yeah," the sheriff says, "his name's Juan Ortiz. Belongs to a motorcycle club."

Shit, Juice thinks, I missed my last check-in. 

But then things get fuzzy and there’s a loud, angry ringing in his ears that reminds him of an alarm clock, except, no matter how much he wills it, neither Chibs nor Tig is going to turn over and hit the snooze button so that he can catch a few more minutes of sleep. There’s no gradual descent into darkness or a tunnel leading toward a light, there’s only a split-second warning, like a clarion, and Juice feels himself being slammed back into his body with a force that rivals being hit by a Mack truck. 

It hurts, and there’s too much noise and there’re too many hands on his body. It’s bright and he can’t breathe, and then he’s being shocked, and, fuck, that hurts. His back arches up off the board he’s been strapped to, and his chest feels like it’s on fire. 

“Stop!” he shouts, but the word never leaves his mouth, or maybe he’s gone deaf. 

Either way, he doesn’t think he’s been heard because the excruciating pain of being electrocuted again causes him to spasm, his toes and fingers to curl. His heart feels like it’s imploding and he wishes that Chibs or even Tig was there with him to tell the paramedics to leave him the hell alone. 

“Got a rhythm,” the second paramedic says, and Juice can see the man through eyes slit in pain. The man runs a hand through his hair, and lets out a shaky breath. “Ready for transport,” he says and he hits the back panel of the ambulance twice.

Juice wants to say something, like, ‘thanks,’ or, ‘what the hell’s happening?’, but he can’t even feel his lips. He tries to move his hand to show them that he’s awake, but he isn’t sure that the movement is successful as the paramedics don’t respond. 

“That was close,” the first paramedic says, “I thought we were going to lose him.”

“Me too,” the second paramedic says, and then Juice feels a slight pressure against his hand, a gentle squeezing and he realizes that the man’s holding his hand, offering him comfort. 

“You’re going to be alright kid,” he says.

I ain’t a kid, Juice thinks, haven’t been one in a very long time.

As the ambulance races through the dark streets, he thinks of Tig and Chibs getting out of the shower, their skin slick with water, glistening in the soft light of the bathroom lamp he’s got hanging over the sink. Tig will shiver, tiny goose bumps standing out like soldiers at attention on his skin, when Chibs throws open the door, letting the cool air in. 

Chibs will call for him, “Hey Juicy, stop playing your silly video games and come join us.”

“Yeah, it’s cold, we need a warm body,” Tig will say.

Sorry, Juice thinks as he closes his eyes, not tonight. 

He’s tired. He takes a deep breath and then embraces the darkness that’s been pulling at him. It’s warm and quiet, and peaceful, like waking slowly on a Sunday morning - Tig’s legs tangled in his, and Chibs’ arm slung across both of their shoulders. And they’ve got all the time in the world with nowhere to go and nothing to do.

to be continued...


	4. Augur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chibs tries to distract a worried Tig; a phone call interrupts and Tig finds himself taking on more responsibility than he wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by spacebabe from livejournal.
> 
> This chapter was written ages ago and posted on ff. net, but I totally forgot to post it here. Until a recent reviewer mentioned the snafu, I was clueless. I just re-read through the story in the hopes that the next chapter will stop being such an ass and come already. 'Course, it would help if I stopped writing cotton candy fluff and whatnot.

 

Tig can't sleep. Something doesn't feel right, but he can't quite put his finger on what it is.

"It's too quiet," he finally says, propping himself up on his elbows.

The kid's gone; apparently he left while Tig was in the shower. Tig had come out to find Chibs sitting on the floor outside the bathroom, cigarette dangling from his fingers, thoughtful look on his face. "Juicey split," he'd said, and, without any further explanation, he'd stood and brushed past Tig, handing him his cigarette as he walked into the bathroom and showered.

The bed creaks as Chibs turns over, and they aren't even touching. "Can't sleep?"

The Scot's lying all the way on the other side of the bed. Tig's in the middle, and he's never felt so alone, not since he'd hooked up with Chibs and Juice.

"Something's wrong."

"What, you're an augur now?" Chibs rolls onto his back and looks at him.

Tig's feeling more than just a little angry and vulnerable just now, with Juice missing and Chibs a hand's breadth away from him. "What the hell did you call me?"

"Never mind," Chibs says, sighing, his brown eyes penetrating as a laser beam. "Look, Juice'll be back in the morning. Kid's just gone to blow off some steam or get some air. He'll be back."

Tig can't help but feel a stab of jealousy at how easily Chibs can read Juice, like maybe they were together before, just the two of them, and he's a third wheel, some pity fuck. Which would be all kinds of ironic.

"Kid does this kinda thing all the time."

And Tig thinks that if maybe he'd paid more attention to Juice, he would've known that about the kid, too. But he ain't Chibs. The man seems to have a read on everyone, Tig included.

"C'mon, Tiggy," Chibs cajoles, reaching over the invisible divide that seems to be between them now that Juice's not in the bed to keep them all together. Like the kid's some kind of human super glue.

Tig reluctantly lies on his back, though he still can't shake the feeling that something's wrong.

"You worried 'bout that dream you had the other night?"

And maybe he is, but it's not just that, there's something else which seems off - wrong. He shakes his head and grasps the hand Chibs is rubbing his thigh with. He brushes his lips against the man's worn knuckles. So unlike a woman's - there's no softness, no tenderness, and it scares him to think that maybe he's the weakest member of this group.

He's not so concerned with being labeled a queer or fag, or whatever the hell it is people call it nowadays, as he is with being labeled weak or a pansy. It scares him that he doesn't get the urge to kick Juice or Chibs (not that he could make Chibs do anything he didn't want to do) out of bed once they've fucked. That, even though he and Chibs haven't so much as wacked off tonight, they're lying in bed, together, and he's okay with it, doesn't feel like going off to get some space between them.

Chibs rubs his thumb along the edge of Tig's bottom lip, and Tig takes some comfort from it. But it doesn't lessen the knot in his stomach, or stop the kid's words from coming back to him – about Juice's days being numbered because every Latina Tig bones dies. And, he fears for a moment that maybe his dream and Juice's words are coming true. Except it's not so much a dream as it is a nightmare.

"He's fine," Chibs assures him for what must be the hundredth time tonight, but Tig still can't shake the feeling that Juice isn't fine.

Maybe it was the almost not there limp he'd noticed, but had said nothing about when the boy had walked past him earlier that day. Or maybe it was the way Juice had looked when he'd left the bathroom earlier that night, tired and edgy.

Tig understands the need for space better than a lot of people. This, what he's experiencing now, worry for someone who isn't one of his daughters and who isn't Clay, is new.

He's always been a 'fuck you now, chuck you later' kind of guy. He's never mixed sentimental crap with sex. Sex is sex is sex. Any way you look at it, it boils down to the same thing - two, three or more people bumping uglies in the middle of the night, the day, in bed, in the park...location, number, time of day, and apparently not even gender matters. It isn't making love. It isn't anything other than fucking - pure animal instinct, nothing grand or earth-shattering.

Sex is a purely physical act, and it's one of the few things that makes Tig feel like he's in control - whether it's Chibs rutting into him like some fucking jack rabbit, or him going at it with a pair of twins with double D's, it doesn't matter. Tig feels in complete and utter control when he's engaged in a sexual act, particularly when it's Chibs who's holding the reins. It doesn't make any sense whatsoever.

"Want to fuck?" Chibs asks, snaking his other hand up Tig's thigh and brushing his thumb over the head of his dick.

Chibs rolls over so that, now, not only are they touching, but he's straddling Tig.

"Might take your mind off of Juice. Maybe he'll come back while we're in the middle of it, and we'll make him watch. Can you picture it?"

And there's something hypnotic and arousing about Chibs when the man says things like that, especially when he's holding Tig's dick, which makes it damn near impossible for Tig to resist.

"Make him watch like the dirty, little boy that he is." Chibs' voice is low, and all Tig can do is throw his head back and nod.

He can picture the kid now, walking in on them, expressive brown eyes filled with hurt at first, but then they'll darken with lust and envy, and the kid'll watch as Chibs fucks Tig. Juice will bite down on his fist and palm himself through his jeans as Tig grunts and moans. His breath will come out in heavy, uneven gasps as he bites down hard on his fist to keep from crying out when he comes seconds before Chibs and then Tig.

When they finish, Juice's eyes will be half-lidded, fist teeth-marked, and lips parted in an unuttered sigh. He'll sag against the wall, the tension from earlier no longer present, and then, sated, he'll join them in bed, cocooning himself behind Tig.

When Tig's cell rings, Chibs has got Tig's dick in hand and is rubbing the tip of it with his thumb, and Tig can hardly breathe let alone think. He thinks of ignoring his cell. Does at first, but then it rings again, and, though Chibs continues his ministrations in an effort to get Tig's mind off of Juice, he pushes Chibs away and reaches for his phone.

Tig growls. "What?"

At first he thinks it's a crank call, because it's just after midnight, and why would some head nurse from some hospital he's never heard of before, be asking for him?

"Yes, this's Tig. How'd you get this number?" he asks. His voice low and threatening.

Chibs, sensing that something's up, leans in toward the phone and presses himself close to Tig. They're chest to chest with Chibs straddling his thighs, and Tig can feel the Scot breathing, the man's erection pushing into his stomach. It's an intimate pose, but Tig concentrates on the phone in his hand.

"Juan Ortiz had this number on his person," the head nurse says primly, and Tig's heart does the funniest thing - it stops beating. "Are you there, sir?"

His palms are sweaty and his mouth dry. "Yeah, I'm here. What the hell do you mean by, '…on his person…'?"

He can feel Chibs' heart beating against his rib cage, and it's as if Chibs' heart is beating for the both of them. Hard and strong and steady.

"There's been an accident, Mr. Ortiz was brought to the hospital two hours ago. He had a piece of paper in his pocket with your name and number on it, and that of a ... Chibs?"

"What kind of accident?" Tig asks, but he already knows what's happened. He's seen Juice's accident play out in vivid detail in his dreams night after night for the past three weeks.

Chibs' hand is gripping Tig's shoulder, fingers digging into the muscle as he strains to hear what the nurse is saying. And Tig can't hear a single word because he can't keep the images from his dreams out of his mind. Juice's body - broken and bloody - lying on the highway, eyes open and vacant, staring up at nothing.

He shakes his head. "No."

He has no idea what it is that he's protesting. He just knows that this isn't right, that this woman is talking about someone else, not Juice, who is lying right there next to him in bed, mumbling nonsense in his sleep.

"Sir?"

Chibs takes the phone from him, prying it from fingers which have gone numb and stiff.

"This is Chibs."

Tig's only half-listening to the conversation. He thinks that maybe this is all just part of his recurring nightmare.

"What do you mean?" Chibs asks, and it's almost funny, the way he's parroting what Tig had asked earlier. Chibs puts the phone on speaker, and Tig has no choice but to listen, to admit that this is really happening.

"I mean, which of you two gentlemen is his domestic partner?"

Both Tig and Chibs frown in confusion, looking at each other as if the other has the answer to what the fuck she's talking about.

"Uh, we both are?"

"That nitwit," the head nurse mumbles. "Making assumptions just because of a few pictures in a cell phone and phone numbers...Sorry I disturbed you gentlemen," she says.

_Pictures?_  Tig thinks, and then he remembers the candid photos that the boy had taken of the two of them with his own personal cell phone. He'd promised to delete them, but obviously he hadn't gotten around to it yet.

"Wait a minute," Chibs says, before the nurse has a chance to hang up on them. "How badly was he hurt?"

And Tig feels like an ass. That should've been the first thing out of his mouth when she'd called. Instead, he'd stammered like a fucking idiot and Chibs had to take the phone from him.

"I'm sorry, but I'm not authorized to give out information to anyone who isn't close family."

"And if I or Tig are his domestic partner, you can give us information?"

Tig can see that Chibs is already plotting something, he just isn't sure that he'll like whatever it is.

"If you provide the proper paperwork, yes."

Tig can hear the skepticism in her voice, but she can't be blamed for that as Chibs practically let on that neither of them were Juice's domestic partner.

"And you'll also be able to make important medical decisions for him."

"Such as?" Chibs asks.

"Such as whether or not he should undergo surgery to find out why he's still bleeding." There's an edge to her voice. "Look, I don't know whether you or the other man is his domestic partner, and quite frankly, I don't care. What he needs right now is for someone to step up to the plate and make these decisions for him. If he's got family that I can call, please give me their names and numbers and I'll let you get back to whatever it was you two were doing before I called."

"Just hold on a second," Tig shouts, grabbing the phone from Chibs before he can respond. "I'm his domestic partner," he blurts out.

He knows that Juice isn't close to his family. Or at least he assumes the kid ain't close to his family, because he hasn't heard anything about them in all the time the kid's been with the Sons, and, if anything, Juice has a tendency to let his mouth run. If he had family he could go to, family he trusted, Tig knows that the kid would have blabbed about it at some point in time.

He can't stomach the thought of just letting the boy bleed to death because the doctors can't figure out what's wrong with him, and because they can't get a hold of his family to make those decisions for him. If Tig can do something to make sure the kid stays alive, he's willing to do it.

"Then why didn't you say so in the first place?" It's clear that she doesn't believe him.

"Because I…," and Tig doesn't know what to say, what he'll need to show as proof when he shows up at the hospital, if he'll need proof. "I thought this was some kind of sick joke," he finishes lamely.

"It would be a cruel-hearted joke," she says. "And I can assure you that I do not joke about such matters."

"Yeah." He doubts that she jokes about anything, cruel or not.

_A cruel, twisted, fucked up joke,_  he thinks, and then, later at the hospital, when the nurse is explaining that Juice is on the third floor, awaiting the go ahead on surgery, he wonders what the hell he's gotten himself into. He wonders how he's going to explain it to the club, and Juice, when he wakes up. Because, if he's going to be the kid's domestic partner, the little bastard better fucking wake up, or he'll kill him.


	5. Waking Sleeping Beauty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tig has been staying with Juice for the past two weeks, not getting any sleep, not eating right. Chibs wants to remedy that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU - though, I believe this is fairly obvious, and I should just add a tag.
> 
> Dedicated to ED (thanks for vibes) and the other lovely, encouraging readers. 
> 
> May contain spoilers for all five seasons, though nothing overly so.

Sitting as he is - slouched low in the chair; legs sprawled out in front of him, crossed at the ankle; chin tucked in toward his chest; hands sitting in his lap - Tig looks at ease, comfortable. Chibs knows better. He can see just how tightly Tig's wound: muscles so taut that they look ready to snap, fingers tapping out a tuneless rhythm on his knee, jaw clenched tight enough to crack.

 

Tig doesn’t turn his head to acknowledge Chibs’ entrance. His eyes are trained on Juice, and Chibs wonders how long Tig has been sitting there, watching a machine breathe for their comatose brother.

 

“You didn’t go home last night,” Chibs says quietly, and he watches Tig, gauging the other man’s reaction to his words. Truth is that Tig hasn’t been home, or to the club, at all since he took on the burden of caring for Juice.

 

Tig’s changed some in the last two weeks since Juice’s accident. Taken on a responsibility that Chibs wished he could have, if only to lessen the load on Tig’s shoulders.

 

Tig frowns, and he looks at Chibs out of the corner of his eye. He shrugs, and folds his hands in his lap.

 

“Kid took a turn for the worse,” he says, and his voice is strained, tired.

 

Chibs wants to ask what that means, how things have taken a turn for the worse, but he doesn’t. He can’t see any changes in the kid – Juice is the same as he was yesterday, the day before, and the day before that. But, he notes the changes in Tig: normally bright eyes dulled and bloodshot by lack of sleep, shoulders permanently hunched, skin pale enough to spook a ghost, and the man’s grown thinner.

 

“Why don’t you go home, I’ll keep watch over the lad for a bit,” Chibs offers, even though he knows that Tig won’t take him up on it.

 

It’s strange how the man has taken to the responsibility of looking after Juice – like a duck to water in spite of Tig’s often mercurial relationship with the kid. But, Chibs figures that he really shouldn’t have been all that surprised when all was said and done - the club voting in favor of the domestic partnership because it would be the best way to ensure that Juice was taken care of, the drawing up of the paperwork by the club’s lawyer, the forging of Juice’s signature, the backdating of the paperwork and the judge signing off on it - because, if nothing else, Tig is a loyal bastard, and, when he cares about someone or something, he wears his heart on his sleeve.

 

“Nah,” Tig says, without sparing Chibs a glance. “I’ve got it.”

 

The unspoken, _I need to be here in case something happens,_ rings loudly between them in the dimly lit room.

 

“You eat dinner yet?” Chibs already knows the answer before he asks the question, and he drops a brown paper bag, filled with one of Tig’s favorite meals, into the man’s lap.

 

“Thanks, man,” Tig says, and there’s a ghost of a smile on his lips that makes Chibs’ heart ache, because he can’t remember the last time that he saw Tig smile, for real, and Chibs can’t remember the last time that _he_ smiled.

 

“You can thank me by eating it,” Chibs says wryly, “before it gets cold.”

 

Chibs turns away from Tig to look at Juice, who, against all odds is somehow still alive. He’s hooked up to too many machines, and Chibs doesn’t even know what half of them are called, or what it is that they do.

 

He just knows that one keeps the kid breathing, and another’s at work filtering the toxins out of his system, because his kidneys have been damaged. The doctors said that Juice’s kidneys, provided that Juice survives long enough, will heal on their own.

 

Juice’s heart rate and brainwaves, or functions, or something like that, are being monitored on a constant basis, and Chibs wonders how Tig can sit there for so long and not be driven mad by the regular blips that the heart monitor makes. If it were him sitting there beside Juice, day after day, he’d have the TV on, or something to break up the monotony, and mask the ever present noise that was a not so pleasant reminder of Juice’s accident.

 

Other than a worn, dog-eared copy of, _Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: An Inquiry into Values_ , a paperback that Juice had given the man for Christmas, Tig has nothing with him. Chibs remembers well how Tig had claimed that he hated the gift, and had tossed the book at Juice, hitting the kid in the head. It made for a highly entertaining Christmas morning.

 

But, Tig had read it secretly, marked passages, and asked Chibs questions about some of the things that he’d read. Never once had Tig let on to Juice that he was reading the book, and every now and again, he’d rag on the kid about his poor taste in gifts – giving an illiterate man a book.

 

Chibs smiles as he recalls the gift that Juice had given him – Glenlivet Scotch Whiskey. Kid must’ve done some research on the internet, or something, put some thought into it. He hadn’t had the heart to tell him that he preferred Johnnie Walker.

 

Chibs brushes the pad of his thumb across Juice’s left eyebrow, mindful of the stitches that’ll leave a scar – it won’t be his only scar. If the doctors are to be believed, it’s a miracle that Juice survived the first twenty-four hours, let alone two full weeks that he has.

 

To be honest, Chibs is impressed as well, he’d never figured Juice for a fighter, especially not after the kid had foolishly attempted to take his own life and failed. Or, maybe it’s that Juice just doesn’t know how to die.

 

Chibs sighs in relief when he hears the paper bag crinkle as Tig opens it. The aroma of the roast beef, still warm, mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans, and buttered corn makes Chibs’ mouth water even though he’s already eaten. He hopes that Tig will finish everything, including the piece of blueberry pie he got the man for dessert, but knows that it won’t happen, and that he’ll have to settle for what he can get.

 

“Docs say that it might help if we talk to him,” Tig says around a mouthful of food.

 

Chibs doesn’t know what to say. He’s torn between berating Juice for being such an idiot, and almost getting himself killed, _again,_ and begging the kid to continue fighting and come back to them.

 

Instead, he traces the outer edge of the tattoo on Juice’s head with an index finger, and wonders, not for the first time, what had possessed the boy to choose that particular design for a tattoo on his skull. It’s the only portion of Juice’s body that Chibs feels comfortable touching as the rest of Juice is bruised, stitched up or torn up from road rash.

 

“Why’d you do it, Juicy?” Chibs asks.

 

His question is answered with a mechanical click and whir from the machine currently breathing for Juice. Neither the heart nor brain monitor register that Juice has heard the question, the output is the same as it has been for the past two weeks - steady and regular.

 

“Because the kid doesn’t have the common sense God gave a goose,” Tig says.

 

His voice lacks its customary tinge of mockery that it usually has when Tig is talking about Juice and his inability to think things through to their probable conclusions. Something that has been the cause of numerous headaches for various members of the club at one time or another - Tig being one of them.

 

“That, he doesn’t,” Chibs agrees, and he briefly presses his lips to Juice’s forehead.

 

It’s another gesture which goes unnoticed by the machines monitoring the kid’s vitals. He wonders if Juice’s heart and brain would get a kick start if he gave Juice something a little less chaste than a kiss on the forehead, but he’s too afraid to risk it, because, given his rotten luck of late, his kiss would have the opposite effect on Juice and make him crash.

 

_Kid’s not Sleeping Beauty_ , Chibs muses as he takes in the younger man’s bruised features. He’s an ugly, broken mess with two black eyes, a broken nose, and his right leg stitched from hip to just below the knee, covered in one solid bruise of yellow, black and red.

 

"I'm not sure if I did the right thing," Tig says after several minutes spent in relative silence, interrupted only by the bleeping of the heart monitor; the click, hiss, whir of the breathing apparatus; and the sounds of Tig eating his dinner.

 

Chibs doesn't respond right away, because he's not completely sure what it is that Tig's talking about - which decision the man is questioning. The decision to join Chibs and Juice in bed that first time, the decision not to leave directly afterwards, the decision to keep coming back, or the decision to stay and become Juice's domestic partner when the going got tough.

 

"What decision's that?" Chibs asks when it appears that Tig won't enlighten him without prompting.

 

"The decision to put the kid on life support," Tig says. His voice is too soft, too strained, and Chibs turns from studying Juice’s monitors, which are annoyingly unchanging, to look at Tig.

 

Tig is looking at Juice, a thoughtful frown on his face, and Chibs wonders how long the man has been staring, if he’d ever taken his eyes off of Juice, even while he was eating. He also notes that Tig hasn’t eaten even half of the food that he’d brought for him, and the pie is untouched.

 

“What if he doesn’t wake up?” Tig raises his eyes to Chibs, and Chibs is taken aback at the fear and uncertainty that he sees displayed in the man’s blue eyes, making them look almost cloudy. “The docs say that if he doesn’t wake up soon, he might never wake up at all, that he’ll become a…a vegetable.”

 

There are tears in Tig’s eyes, making them look like they’re standing pools of water. It’s not something Chibs has seen often – Tig shaken – and it makes him feel a little uneasy. Like the world’s tilting a little more toward the sun than it should be, and they’re all about to get burned. 

 

“What if he doesn’t wake up, and he’s hooked up to machines until he’s old and gray? Or, what if I die, and he’s still here, with a tube stuck down his throat, and a catheter shoved up his dick? Shit, Chibs, he can’t even pee on his own. And, all I can think about is, what if it was me? Would I want to live like that? Like a fucking robot? Not alive, not dead, just there.”

 

Chibs hones onto the only part of this conversation that he feels comfortable with, and he perches on the arm of the chair that Tig has been occupying on and off for the past two weeks.

 

“You know,” Chibs says in a light, conversational tone, despite the whirlwind of emotions churning inside of him. If Tig needs anything right now, it’s the guise of normalcy. “I think Juice wouldn’t mind being a robot. He’s always playing those crazy video games and watching those action Terminator type movies. And you know how he is about his dick...”

 

That drags a smile from Tig, which is what he wanted. The slight chuckle from Tig is a bonus, as is the way that Tig relaxes slightly, letting his head rest against Chibs’ thigh. Chibs wraps his arm around Tig’s shoulder and lets the man bury his face into his side and cling to him.

 

Tig’s shoulders shake, and Chibs bites down on his tongue, because words won’t help, and, in any case, he doesn’t have the right ones to say. There isn’t a word that will help ease the burden that Tig’s taken on his shoulders, but he _can_ be there for his brother, and sometimes lover, and, he will.

 

Chibs takes a deep breath, and combs Tig’s hair with his fingers. It’s an intimate gesture, and it stirs something inside of Chibs. It’s been a long, hard two weeks, and he’s been lonely. Going to bed and waking up alone.

 

Until he’d lost them (the loss of Juice had, oddly enough, left him equally bereft of Tig) Chibs hadn’t fully realized just how much he’d come to rely on Tig and Juice simply being there for him whenever he had an itch that needed scratching or a need to not be alone.

 

It’s a sobering epiphany - the idea that he needs Tig and Juice, maybe more than they need him - and Chibs is hit with the thought that he doesn’t want to leave the hospital alone tonight, and he doesn’t want to stay in Tig’s stead. He wants, maybe even needs to be with someone – preferably Tig – tonight. Convincing Tig to leave Juice’s side, even for the night, is not going to be easy, but Chibsis willing to play dirty, if he needs to, to get what he wants.

 

When Tig’s silent shudders begin to taper off, and the man stills beside him, Chibs rubs Tig’s back with the heel of his hand, and presses his lips to the man’s dark curls. He breathes in the scent of Tig - cigarette smoke, motor oil, grease, and lingering body odor from infrequent showering - and wonders if he can convince Tig to return with him to Juice’s place, take a shower and get some sleep.

 

There are plants to water - how Juice has managed to keep a one of them alive all this time, let alone the small potted garden of at least a dozen plants that he’s got going on in his small, cordoned-off backyard is mind-boggling to Chibs- mail to pick up, and various other chores that need tending to. Menial tasks that Chibs, and some of the others, have been taking care of, off and on, since Juice landed himself in the hospital.

 

Tig pulls back, wipes at his eyes. “Sorry, man.”

 

Chibs raises an eyebrow and shrugs off Tig’s apology. If all he can do is offer Tig a shoulder to cry on, and then turn a blind eye to it, then that’s what he’ll do, but he’s hoping that he can do more. That Tig will _let_ him do more.

 

“Come back to Juice’s place with me?” he asks, sends up a little prayer to god, Buddha, whatever deity is willing to listen to, and answer him right now. “Get a shower, a decent night’s sleep, come back refreshed tomorrow.”

 

“The docs said I should talk to him,” Tig repeats, and he sags against the back of the chair. “Problem is, I don’t know what to say, so I’ve been reading to him.” Tig chuckles - it’s a dry, broken sound - and holds the book aloft.

 

Chibs takes a deep breath - he really needs a cigarette - and lets it out slowly. He’s tired, can feel the exhaustion practically rolling off of Tig, and knows that he needs to choose his words very carefully right now.

 

And it’s funny, because if anyone had told him two weeks ago that he’d be contending with a Mama Bear version of Tig, he’d have laughed. Chibs is fairly certain that Tig would’ve hauled off and decked whoever’d dared to insinuate such a thing. But, if there’s anything Chibs has learned over the years, it’s that times and circumstances change, and so do people.

  
Chibs punches Tig’s arm playfully. “Careful, or the kid’s gonna find out you know how to read.”

 

Tig scowls at him and rubs at his shoulder. He stifles a yawn, and blinks slowly, rubbing at his eyes. “I’d never hear the end of it.”

 

“He wouldn’t let you live it down, that’s for sure,” Chibs agrees, doesn’t add in that Tig still hasn’t let Juice off the hook for some dog biting his ass.

 

Chibs has seen the scar; has tasted it. Doesn’t see what the big fuss is all about. As far as scars go, it’s almost… _pretty_ …or maybe that’s just because of where it’s located. Location, after all, is everything, and Tig’s ass is prime real estate.

 

“You don’t think, he…” Tig’s quietly spoken words, and the serious tone that accompanies them, startle Chibs from his thoughts. He frowns as he tries to make out what it is that Tig is asking. Tig gestures toward Juice and mimes the shooting of a gun, his eyes searching Chibs’ warily.

 

The same thought has occurred to Chibs often over the past two weeks, but it’s always fleeting, and he’s been quick to brush it off, refusing to entertain the thought that Juice had meant to kill himself when he’d left them that night. It wouldn’t be the first time that Juice had tried to end his life, and Chibs had been keeping up a surreptitious suicide watch on Juice, even long after Jax had deemed it to be no longer necessary.

 

Juice was good at slapping a smile on his face and pretending that all was well and sunshiny in his little corner of the world, but Chibs had known better. He could see through Juice’s façade, and he’d known that something was wrong that night, yet he hadn’t stopped Juice from leaving.

 

Chibs looks from Juice to Tig, correctly reads the worry and the self-blame reflected in Tig’s eyes, and he feels guilty. He could have – should have – done something to stop Juice. Could have lied a promise to the younger man ( _We’ll be together, forever_ ), pressed a little harder for Juice to talk about whatever the hell it was that had been bothering him that night, or flat out refused to let him leave.

 

“I don’t know,” Chibs answers truthfully.

 

Chibs had, perhaps mistakenly, thought that what they’d had going on between the three of them – Juice, Tig, and him – had been keeping Juice’s personal demons at bay. Now, looking at Juice– paler than he had any right to be –  lying so quiet and still in the hospital bed, not even able to breathe on his own, Chibs can’t be certain of anything.

 

“I just keep asking myself what I did wrong,” Tig says. He barks out a coarse laugh and shakes his head.

 

“Maybe you’re right.” Tig looks at him, there’s uncertainty in his gaze, and in the trembling of his voice. “I need to get out of this place, get my head on straight; have a smoke, drink ‘til I’m blind, and fuck until I can no longer feel my legs…” he glances over at Juice, and his eyes linger on the younger man. “Lord knows I’m not going to get anything out of my _wife_ right now.”

 

Chibs knows there’s a joke in there, somewhere, but he can’t quite bring himself to give voice to it. Instead, he rests his hand on Tig’s shoulder, and decides to throw caution to the wind and say what he’s been thinking.

 

“You need sleep. You’re not doing the kid any good being here right now. Let someone else sit with him for a change. If the hospital needs you, they’ll call.” Chibs rubs his thumb along Tig’s collarbone, feels the hard knot in the man’s shoulder, and presses his fingers into it.

 

Dropping his head forward, Tig sighs and moans, wriggling so that Chibs’ fingers dig deeper into the knotted muscles. It’s awkward, sitting on the arm of a hospital chair attempting to give Tig a much-needed shoulder rub.

 

Thankfully, it’s not one of those hard-backed, plastic chairs that are impossible to get comfortable in, but something akin to an armchair, like they have in birthing suites. Chibs wonders if Tig, or maybe Tara, re-appropriated it. Either way, Chibs is glad that it’s here, that Tig hasn’t had to sleep in one of those torture devices that hospitals mistake as furniture suitable for the loved ones of their patients.

 

“Besides,” Chibs adds in a whisper, his mouth close to Tig’s ear, sending a shiver through the other man, “you know how difficult it is to wake Juice. Boy likes his sleep.”

 

That sparks a real laugh from Tig who nods, even as his eyes scrunch up and he bites down on his bottom lip when Chibs digs his thumb into the center of a particularly stubborn knot located just above the man’s shoulder blade. Chibs works at the knot, willing it to loosen, to give Tig some relief from the tension. When the muscle finally relents, giving way beneath Chibs’ knuckles and fingertips, Tig groans appreciatively. He catches Chibs’ hand in his, draws it close, and presses his lips to the inside of Chibs’ wrist.

 

In spite of the fact that Juice is lying barely two feet away from them, for all intents and purposes, dead to the world, Chibs reacts to the intimate touch – his cock hardening uncomfortably in his jeans. He hasn’t been touched like that in days, weeks; it feels like a lifetime.

 

“Fuck.”

 

It’s not the right time or place for this to be happening, but Chibs’ dick and his mind seem to be on two different wavelengths. Instead of obeying his command to ‘stand down,’ his cock grows harder, and he tries to think banal thoughts.

 

Chibs closes his eyes, and he knows that he’s truly and royally fucked, because his mind gets on the same bandwagon as his dick, supplying him with image after image that only serve to make him hard as a rock.

 

He wants to fuck Tig against the wall, the door, the floor – in this case, location doesn’t matter at all. And, Chibs knows that he’s a man condemned to hell when he pictures Tig bent over the flimsy, metal bedrail that’s separating them from Juice while he pounds into Tig’s ass, making the man call out his name, and beg him for more.

 

Chibs draws in a sharp breath, and bites into his fist as he imagines Juice waking while he’s buried balls deep inside of Tig. It’d be perfect, the kid’s dark eyes blinking back two solid weeks of unconsciousness. Tig moaning and writhing beneath him, as Juice watches.

 

 

Chibs refuses to believe that Juice is brain dead; that the almost flat line that’s showing the lack of brain activity in his friend isn’t a real reflection of what’s happening inside of Juice’s head. He refuses to believe that, were he and Tig to fuck, practically on top of the kid, Juice would remain unaware of it, that the kid wouldn’t wake up and want to join them.

 

He’s angry, and hard, and so tired that he isn’t sure he’s thinking straight, but Chibs is not going to take no for an answer from Tig. As if reading his mind or maybe Tig is just getting an eyeful of Chibs’ hard on, close as his head is to Chibs’ crotch, Tig licks a swathe down the middle of Chibs’ palm, and he then bites into the heel of Chibs’ hand. It isn’t hard, and won’t leave a mark, but fuck if it doesn’t make it nigh impossible for Chibs to coax his erection into submission.

 

Chibs snarls out a warning, his voice low and breathy, “Tig.”

 

Anyone could walk in on them right now – a doctor or a nurse, one of the Sons – and they’d be caught in something that couldn’t be explained away. Chibs knows that he should stop this, like he should’ve stopped Juice from leaving, but he can’t bring himself to, because it’s been too damn long.

 

Chibs has never considered himself to be a weak man, easily given to temptation and following the ways of the flesh, but when Tig mouths him through his jeans, sucking and pressing his tongue against the head of his dick, Chibs nearly falls off the arm of the chair. He makes a little moan at the back of his throat, and grabs a fistful of Tig’s hair, pushes the man’s head into his crotch, and opens his legs a little wider to give the man better access.

 

Tig slides to the floor, and peers up at Chibs through the fringe of his lashes, begging with his eyes. Chibs loosens his hold on Tig’s hair, and practically falls into the chair that Tig just vacated, spreading his legs even wider. On his knees, like that, Tig looks like a beautiful, fuckable mess.  

 

“Please?” Tig asks, as if he needs permission to continue what he started.

 

Chibs can’t even find his voice; he swallows and nods, gestures toward his, now quite painful, erection, and practically keens when Tig bends his head and starts to suck and teeth him through the thick fabric of his jeans. When Tig pauses, and begins to work at the zipper with trembling fingers, Chibs stops breathing for the full three and a half seconds, or so, that it takes for Tig to work the zipper loose. Heart hammering in his chest, Chibs throws his head back, clutches at the arm of the chair with one hand, and buries the fingers of his other hand into Tig’s hair.

 

Chibs growls, and looks up at the ceiling. He blinks rapidly against a sudden onset of tears when Tig’s mouth wraps around the head of his dick, and he begins to finger Chibs’ balls.  “Oh…fuh…Tig.”

 

The tip of Tig’s tongue tickles and teases, even as he continues to suck in earnest – making indecent, slurping sounds that only serve to twist Chibs’ stomach into knots. When Tig begins to work past the head, taking more of Chibs’ shaft into his mouth, Chibs loses himself to incoherent gasps and moans that might, at one point in time, have resembled words.

 

Chibs shudders, and shifts, resists the urge to thrust into Tig’s mouth, because Tig has already swallowed as much of him as he can, his balls tucked against the underside of Tig’s chin. Tig’s no longer fingering him. Chibs watches, through slit eyes, as Tig palms himself – hand slipping into his jeans, and stroking. Tig’s mouth is hot and wet – like a fucking jungle – his throat tight around Chibs.

 

Chibs moans and pants as Tig begins to make a guttural sound, sending vibrations through Chibs’ dick and up along his spine, making his limbs and his scalp tingle. Chibs can no longer resist the urge to lean forward and start the push-pull-slide that’s part and parcel of screwing.

 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…”

 

Chibs loses himself in the age-old rhythm of sex, sweat prickling his skin. He no longer sees the stained tiles of the ceiling, he’s picturing a memory of Tig and Juice kneeling in the center of their shared bed, cock pressed to cock, rocking and moaning together as they pleasure each other for Chibs’ benefit.

 

When he’s close to coming, Chibs tugs on Tig’s hair, urging the man to pull away, but Tig, stubborn ass that he is, doesn’t obey. He lifts his eyes. There’s a devilish gleam to them, and Chibs tries to stop the inevitable, but fails.

 

With a stifled shout, he stiffens and comes inside of Tig’s mouth, flooding Tig’s throat with hot cum. When he’s finished, and nothing more than a quivering, flagging mess of fried nerves, Tig releases him with a vulgar slurping sound. Thick, white cum spills out of the corner of Tig’s mouth and he catches it with his tongue, like a cat lapping up cream.

 

Chibs blinks the lingering images from his head, and, hearing Tig’s broken, juddering breaths, as he palms himself, Chibs shoves his hand into Tig’s pants. He wraps his fingers around the familiar hard length, and begins to stroke. His grip is firm and the movements of his hand along the shaft are quick and sure as he senses that Tig is near to completion.

 

“That’s it,” he whispers into Tig’s ear, “come for me.”

 

This time, Tig seems to have no trouble obeying his command, and with a rasping, “Fuck, yeah,” he comes, and then collapses, pressing his forehead against the inside of Chibs’ thigh.

 

“Thank you,” Tig whispers, his lips brushing against Chibs’ thigh.

 

Chibs caresses Tig’s hair, sticky with sweat, and tucks himself back into his jeans. Though Tig is still knelt before him, back bowed, arms lax at his side, he’s no longer wound as tightly as he was when Chibs first walked into the hospital room. In spite of what’s got to be an uncomfortable position on the floor, Tig’s relaxed, his breathing is soft and warm against Chibs’ thigh, and Chibs knows that it’s just a matter of minutes before Tig falls asleep.

 

“What for?” Chibs asks, because, from where he’s sitting, it was Tig who did him the favor.

 

When Tig just smiles up at him goofily, Chibs shakes his head. He reaches down, grasps Tig beneath the armpits, and yanks him up. The chair’s not overly large, but it’s big enough for this. Chibs scoots back, leaving his legs spread wide so that there’s enough room for Tig to sit with his back pressed flush against Chibs’ chest.

 

Chibs runs his fingers through Tig’s hair, and smiles when Tig relaxes into his hold, lets his head rest against Chibs’ shoulder, and closes his eyes. “Just rest,” Chibs murmurs.

 

Tig nods and sighs. He’s asleep, breath evening out into soft snores, before Chibs finishes shifting them into a more comfortable position – one that he hopes won’t make him cramp up overnight. Chibs has missed this – sleeping, back to chest, limbs entwined – more than he’d cared to admit.

 

It’s as his eyes start to droop, that he hears it – the incessant, pulsing blips of the heart monitor increasing in rhythm, bleeding into each other until it’s become a whining drone. The click, whir of the ventilator has also begun to change its pattern, and Chibs forces his eyes open.

 

He squints at the readouts of the machines that are working at monitoring and keeping Juice alive, and his heart skips a beat as he sees a spike in, not only the echocardiogram, but also the brainwave thingamajig. He rubs at his eyes, and then drags them away from the machine to take a proper look at Juice.

 

“Juice?” he croaks, choking on the word when dark, frightened eyes lock onto his.

 

Juice looks like a terrified little boy – much younger than his twenty-odd years. Confusion wars with panic in the younger man’s eyes and Juice raises a shaking hand, but it drops back to the bed, and he turns his head toward Chibs, silently pleading with him.

 

The machines begin to buzz and whir loudly, and Tig stirs in his arms as Juice’s confusion gives way to full blown panic, his forehead scrunching up, and his fingers fumbling with the sheet beneath him. Chibs curses, and carefully extricates himself from Tig, and he’s not entirely sure how he manages to do that without knocking the man to the floor.

 

Chibs is beside Juice before he has time to really think about what he’s doing. He picks up the flailing hand and rubs his thumb along the knuckles – scuffed from the motorcycle wreck – shushing and trying to calm Juice as best he can. He presses his lips to the man’s forehead, praises him for waking up, and tells him that he’s alright, that everything’s going to be okay, that he was in an accident, but he’s okay now, he’s in a hospital, that Tig hasn’t left his side the entire time.

 

Tig sidles up, presses so close to Chibs that it’s a wonder that he doesn’t stumble into the bed railing.

 

“You’re awake.” Tig’s voice is filled with wonder, and hope.

 

“You’re awake,” he repeats quietly, relief evident in the two spoken words. He twines his fingers through Chibs’ and Juice’s, and squeezes.

 

“He’s awake,” Tig’s lips graze Chibs’ earlobe, and Chibs can’t help but share in Tig’s mounting enthusiasm.

 

Sobering, Chibs says, “We should page for a doctor.” He wonders that they haven’t descended upon the room yet, what with the way the machines have been reacting to Juice’s increased vitals.

 

“I’m sure they’ll be in soon enough, kicking us out,” Tig says in a voice laced with disgust, apparently unwilling to leave Juice’s side now that the man is awake.

 

Juice’s eyes are wildly roaming the room, and Chibs wonders how much of this the kid is actually taking in. He knows that there’s a very real possibility that Juice has suffered irreversible brain damage, but he pushes the fear aside, knowing that it’s too early to tell, and he concentrates on trying to calm Juice, so that the younger man doesn’t have a heart attack, another frightening possibility.

 

“Juice, listen to me,” Chibs says, leaning close, pressing his forehead to Juice’s, looking directly into his eyes, so that Juice has something to focus on. Tig’s hand is on Chibs’ back, anchoring him, as he attempts to calm Juice.

 

It takes a while for the blipping of the heart monitor to slow to a less frenetic cadence, and Chibs’ throat grows hoarse as he speaks what he hopes are comforting words to Juice. But Juice’s heart finally stops trying to beat its way out of his chest, and Chibs lets out a relieved breath.

 

“Sir,” a tense voice says, and it’s then that Chibs realizes that they’re not alone, that the room is filled with a rather impressive contingent of doctors and nurses. Tig’s hand is on his arm, and, though the man doesn’t tear his eyes away from Juice, he pulls Chibs back from the bed.

 

“We need to check him out,” the doctor says.

 

Chibs nods, lets Tig drag him out of the way of the doctors and nurses who converge on Juice like a swarm of bees. He digs his heels in when a nurse suggests that they go out to the lobby to wait, with the promise that one of them will be out to get them once they’ve finished poking and prodding Juice.

 

“We’ll wait right here,” Chibs says, glaring at the nurse.

 

Shaking her head, she makes a face at the both of them, but doesn’t say anything else. She turns away when one of the doctors says something that Chibs doesn’t understand.

 

“They’re scaring him,” Tig says, and he’s as tense as he was earlier that night.

 

Chibs can’t help but agree. With the increased frequency of the heart monitor’s blips, it’s clear that Juice is in distress. As the doctors and nurses conduct their checks, the whirlwind of activity around Juice is dizzying, and Chibs is worried, that with all of their care, they’ll send Juice into another tailspin.

 

What feels like an eternity later, the number of doctors and nurses has dwindled down to just a handful – two doctors, and a single nurse. Chibs and Tig have taken up residence in a corner of the room. Tig’s watching the doctors as they work, his eyes trained on them like a hawk, muscles bunched tightly, ready to light on them at the slightest hint of foul play.

 

“We’re ready to take him off the ventilator, sir,” the nurse says, and she’s holding out a clipboard to Tig. “Please sign here.” She presses a pen into Tig’s hand, and Tig looks to Chibs for confirmation.

 

Moved by the simple gesture of trust and inclusion, Chibs nods, and Tig signs. They both hold their breath when the tube is removed, and Juice doesn’t appear to be breathing on his own. Though the doctors explained that it would take a couple of seconds for Juice to start breathing normally, it feels like it takes an eternity before Juice’s chest rises and falls  of its own accord as he takes a shaky breath and lets it out. Chibs sighs in relief.

 

An indeterminable time later, during which the second hand of the clock seems to move at a snail’s pace, the doctors and nurse finally leave with the promise that they’ll be back in a couple of hours to check on Juice who’s currently in stable condition. Chibs and Tig take up their former positions beside Juice’s bed – silent sentries, guarding him, making sure that he continues to breathe unaided.

 

He’s sleeping, and strangely enough there’s a difference between the way Juice had looked when he’d been in the coma – hollow and dried out, like an empty husk– and the way he looks now – face evened out in peaceful lines, lips turned slightly downward, fingers curled possessively around a fistful of sheets.

 

“Sleep,” Chibs whispers, pressing his lips to Juice’s, as though he’s the Prince Charming of this tale. Unlike Sleeping Beauty, Juice doesn’t stir, but his heart rate, which had increased with the doctors’ presence, slows to a more sedate pace.

 

Tig stifles a yawn behind a fist, and sways dangerously on his feet. Chibs, knowing that neither of them will be leaving the hospital anytime soon, leads Tig back to the chair, and settles the both of them into it. It’s a tight fit, but it works. Tomorrow, maybe Tig will come home with him, and sleep in what Chibs has come to think of as _their_ bed – his, Tig’s and Juice’s. But, for now, this will do.

 

Tig is the first to drift off to sleep with his head nestled against Chibs’ shoulder, and Chibs’ arms wrapped around him like a blanket. Chibs succumbs to the pull of sleep shortly afterwards, with the sound of Juice’s heart-monitor acting as metronome, lulling him into a dreamless sleep.

 


	6. Freedom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tig considers options regarding Juice's care, and faces off with a doctor who's ready to write Juice off as a lost cause. Happy pays a visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written on a tablet while aboard a plane. Hopefully it's coherent and makes sense. Right now, I'm feeling a bit incoherent and jet-lagged. 
> 
> I also worked on something for Quick and Tawdry, but it needs to be revised before posting.

Tig's so tired that he thinks he's losing his mind; seeing and hearing things that aren't real. Things which complicate his life more than what he needs. More than what anyone needs.

He scrubs a hand over his face, feels the rough stubble -- he hasn't been able to shave in days. "Fuck."

Juice is watching him warily. Dark eyes guarded in a way Tig's never seen them before. It doesn't suit the kid at all, but Tig doesn't know what to do about it, how to fix what the idiot's done to himself. 

"I know it's a lot to take in," the doctor says, sighing heavily. 

The aging man takes his glasses off and polishes them on his white coat before replacing them on his face and looking at the wall opposite of where Tig's standing. 

Tig wants to bash the man's face in, because he's not said one thing that he wants to hear, and the doctor seems content to write Juice off as a lost cause. Wants to send him to a 'long-term care facility' where he can get the 'care he needs'.

"You don't know shit," Tig says, and he rolls a cigarette between his fingers, before tucking it into his pocket. 

He wishes Chibs was here, dealing with this crap. The man wasn't a saint or anything, but he had more patience for things like this, knew how to keep his cool when the doctors were talking in circles, getting nowhere.

The doctor blinks and he frowns slightly, reaches for his glasses -- like it's a nervous tic -- and lets his hand fall to his side, hand clenched in a loose fist. He sighs again, and Tig counts to ten, hoping that the urge to deck the doctor will pass. 

He glances at Juice, diverts his eyes back to the doctor, because Juice's eyes are just 'wrong,' and there’s a bit of drool in the corner of his mouth. He knows the kid is in there, somewhere. Knows that the doctor's wrong about that much. Juice isn't brain damaged. There's too much knowing in the eyes that watch Tig, tracking his movements. 

It's the silence that Tig finds unnerving, because the kid talks too damn much. Has always talked too much, and there was a time when Tig wanted nothing more than to get Juice to shut up. 

Now, though, after one week of the kid's waking silence, Tig feels like he's drowning in it. Drowning in the absence of words and constant, inane chatter.

"I know it's frustrating for you to see your partner like this, Mr. Trager, but --"

"I'm not putting him in some goddamn nursing home where he'll waste away," Tig growls, gets in the doctor's face, because he's tired of staring at the man's back. "He's not a fucking vegetable."

The doctor swallows, his fingers twitch as he raises his hand. "Mr. Trager, I'm sorry, but we just don't --"

"Don't give a flying fuck about him, because he's a fag? Or because he's a biker?" Tig grasps the doctor's coat by the lapels, and grins when the doctor's eyes widen and the man pales.

"It...that's...it has nothing to do with your..." the doctor stammers, cheeks flushing in his attempt to defend himself and the hospital. "That is, your uh... your sexual...uh..."

Tig raises an eyebrow and the doctor, unable to maintain eye contact, looks away. "Mr. Trager, our facility is simply not equipped to handle the long-term care that your partner needs."

"So, I'm just supposed to check him into a nursing home, and that's it?" Tig lets go of the doctor's coat, and backs away. His head spins, and he grips the back of the hospital chair he's spent countless hours in.

"I'm afraid it's not as simple as that," the doctor says. His voice is quiet, filled with compassionate understanding that Tig doesn't want or need right now. 

"Recovery after such a traumatic injury is tricky, especially when the brain and nervous system are involved," the doctor's words are sincere, matter-of-fact, and grate on Tig's already fried nerves. "Your partner was without oxygen for an indeterminate amount of time, he was in a coma for weeks, and suffered internal injuries. Quite frankly, it's a miracle that he's still alive."

Tig looks at Juice, sees something in the younger man's eyes that seems like understanding, but Juice looks away, rolls his head toward the window. It's dark out, raining, and Tig wants to run.

Get on his bike, and ride, and never look back, let the doctors shove Juice into one of those government operated facilities where he'll waste away to nothing.

It'll kill the kid before it makes him better. They'll keep him doped up, and underpaid orderlies will take advantage of him, abuse him. Or he'll be neglected, left to rot, body riddled with bed sores, like Tig's grandfather had when his family sent him to live out the rest of his days in a nursing home.

Bile rises at the back of his throat, burning it and Tig swallows it, and the images that the thought of leaving Juice to the mercies of California's medical system conjure up. None of them are pretty, and Tig isn't a man who gives up easily. 

He might be a cold-hearted bastard most of the time, but, when push comes to shove, Tig pushes back. No one tells him what to do. He's lived long enough, and earned the right to do what he wants, how he wants to do it, hell, he fought for that right.

Tig glares at the back of Juice's head, and clenches his jaw. He takes a deep breath, and turns to face the doctor. 

"He stays put," Tig says. "I'm not giving you permission to move him to the long-term care facility."

The doctor gives him a sad, tight smile, and sighs. He nods and this time he does reach for his glasses, polishes them on his coat. He places them on the bridge of his nose and pushes them onto his face before shoving his hands into his pockets.

"We'll continue to monitor him the best that we can," his voice betrays how futile an idea he believes it to be, what a fool he thinks Tig is for not giving up just yet.

"I'd like a second opinion," Tig says. He has no idea where those words come from, but is undeterred when the doctor sighs yet again.

"It's within your rights to request a second opinion," he says. "I'll have a nurse bring in a list of doctors, but I've got to warn you, more than likely, they'll tell you what I've been telling you all along." 

The doctor leaves without a backward glance and Tig collapses in the chair. He runs a hand through his hair, and knows that, like it or not, he's got to take a shower. 

A light knock at the door startles him, and Tig is on guard instantly. Chances are that it's one of the nurses -- he hopes it's the pretty, dark-haired one who has legs that go on forever-- or someone from the club, but Tig sits up straighter, reaches for the weapon he's hidden at the small of his back. 

He relaxes slightly when Happy enters the room, closing the door behind him. Rolls his shoulders and offers Happy a smile. 

"How's he doing?" Happy jerks a chin in Juice's direction as he takes a seat beside Tig.

"Same," Tig says, feeling some of his pent up anger bubbling toward the surface. "Doctor Frankenstein still wants me to put him in a home."

Happy raises an eyebrow at the nickname, gives Tig a thoughtful look. "You sure that's not a good idea?" he asks, holding his hands out to stave off an argument. 

"The way I see it, he's not getting any better," Happy says. 

"That the way you see it, or is this coming from the club?" Tig fists his hands in his lap, doesn't understand why the fuck he cares so much about what happens to Juice. The kid's a pain in the ass most of the time, and he's unstable. His accident all but proved that.

"Easy, brother," Happy says, hands held up in a placating manner. "I'm just trying to get a handle on the situation. Seems to me you spend more time at Juice's bedside than you do at the club, seems more than's necessary to satisfy those papers the lawyer drew up." Happy shrugs, gives Tig a loaded look.

Tig's blood runs cold, and his head spins. Fuck all, he doesn't need Happy reading more into all of this than he should be. Tig schools his features, scowls at Happy, and flicks him off.

Happy laughs. "Relax, I'm not here to out you. Go, take a shower, eat, sleep. Chibs asked me to come spell you for a couple hours. Don't worry, I'll keep an eye on sleeping beauty over there." 

Tig looks over at Juice, and sure enough, his eyes are closed, his chest rising and falling evenly. Tig opens his mouth, closes it, and drags a hand over his face. He's too tired to argue, doesn't have the wherewithal to ask why Chibs hadn't come himself, is afraid of the answer.

"Chibs had to deal with some club business. He'll come spell Bobby tomorrow. You're not allowed back at the hospital for at least forty-eight hours," Happy says. "Now 'that's' from the club." 

Happy's lost the smile, the look on his face is all business. He cracks his knuckles when Tig doesn't move right away, shifts forward in the chair.

"Promise, we won't let the doctors move him. We'll take good care of him, Tig. Go, get some rest. You look like you've met Mr. Mayhem." Though the words are delivered in a lighthearted manner, the look in Happy's eyes is anything but lighthearted. It's hard and unmoving. Happy will bodily remove him from the room if Tig refuses to leave. In a way, it's comforting, reminds Tig that he really isn't alone, that neither is Juice.

"A nurse is supposed to bring a list of doctors I can get a second opinion from," Tig says. It's a last ditch effort to stay, though the road and sleep -- freedom -- are calling to him.

"Go," Happy says, gesturing toward the door. "I'll get the list."

With one last look at Juice, confirming that, for now at least, he's safe and resting, Tig leaves. Lets the door fall shut behind him, and practically runs down the hall, through the exit, to his freedom. 

He mounts his bike, and rides, not looking back, feeling the tension, the responsibility fall away as he puts miles between himself and the imprisoning hospital. Between himself and the maddeningly unresponsive Juice. It all bleeds away -- the tension and constant, mind-numbing worry -- as he loses himself in the ride. 

Tig throws his head back, howls into the night, and rides as far away as he can get, relishing the sense of freedom. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Also posted on my livejournal and at Sons of Anarchy Slash on livejournal.


End file.
